by Alan Carter
‘Accentuates the dick factor for sure.’
Let’s get off the subject of fools and gold. ‘How’s Daniel?’
‘Good, he’s heading down to Christchurch for a few days. His mum’s birthday.’
‘You guys set a wedding date yet?’
‘Not yet, sometime in spring maybe.’
‘He’s a lucky man.’ I raise my cup in salute.
‘That’s what I keep telling him.’ She drains her mug, stares into the depths of it.
‘Everything okay?’
‘Yep.’ Back to the desk. A scan of her computer screen. ‘What should we do now? Timesheets or crime stats analysis?’
‘Maybe some community policing?’
‘Bakery again? Bring me back a sausage roll, Sarge. I’ll hold the fort.’
The rest of the day is a combination of more traffic duty on SH6, showing our faces around town, paperwork, and delivering a petty summons or two. By five I’m on my way back up the winding valley road. Just beyond the cluster of houses near the pub, a mastiff runs onto the road and starts trying to attack the car. It’s mad and won’t get out of the way. The dog belongs to a family that seem to subsist on welfare and the proceeds of firewood thefts, poaching and petty drug deals. They also have regular loud and late parties, which I’ve been called out to close down now and again. They’re not particularly malicious, just thoughtless and useless. The neighbours hate them, dubbing them the Von Crapps. A teenage girl runs out onto the road.
‘Winston! Cut it out! Get back inside.’
I wind my window down. ‘Thanks, Shanille. See you got a new tatt.’
She tilts her head so I can read what’s on her neck. Heaven on a Stick. Nice.
‘Not gonna put him in the pound are ya?’
‘Be good if you could keep your gate shut. Safer for everybody. And Winston.’
‘Yeah nah.’
Another time, I guess. ‘See you.’
Another four k’s up, my distant neighbour Charlie Evans waves me down. All these people out on the road. It’s like downtown Auckland today. He’s got a For Sale sign outside his chicken and alpaca farm but he’s not going anywhere soon. The sign has been there for six months. I slow to a stop and step out for a stretch.
‘Charlie? How’s it going?’
He scratches his white beard, slaps at a sandfly. ‘Same old, same old.’
‘No offers yet?’
‘Nah. And with winter on the way I can’t see any coming.’
‘Still managing without Denzel?’ The young bloke who was helping him out as part of a restorative justice program to make up for a crossbowed alpaca. He recently signed up at the tech college in Blenheim. Training to be a bricklayer.
‘Pretty much. I’m gradually selling off the livestock. Living off mine and Beattie’s savings. That cruise she always wanted never happened.’
Charlie has been a widower for over a year now and it still shows. ‘You should come up to ours for a feed sometime. How about next weekend?’
‘Thanks, Nick. I’ll give you a call, eh? Fix a time.’
He won’t. We have this conversation every time we meet and neither of us follows through. He hesitates.
‘Something troubling you, Charlie?’
‘Those people who’ve moved into the Lodge.’
‘People? There was only one when I was up there yesterday.’
A shake of the head. ‘Two vanloads went past today. Minibuses.’
‘How do you know where they were going?’
‘They stopped and bailed me up. All had the same accent. Howdydoody and all that. Pretty aggressive bunch.’
‘What was their problem?’
A shrug. ‘Didn’t like my face, I suppose.’
‘What’d they say?’
‘Nothing specific. Just taking the piss. Treating me like a hillbilly. Maybe they’d been drinking, I don’t know.’
‘Want me to have a word?’
He squints at the falling sun. ‘Wouldn’t be a good start to things, me dobbing them in for something so minor. Their north-east perimeter borders me.’ He turns to the logged hill behind him which is showing signs of regrowth. ‘The other side of that rise.’ Waves it away. ‘Not worth it. Feuds spark out of nowhere in this valley and can burn for decades.’
‘All the same. You don’t have to put up with being bullied.’
He puts his hand on my shoulder. ‘Good as gold, Nick.’
3.
There’s nothing quite so dull as a film set. A lot of people standing around for a long time: lights, cameras, et cetera, the cast in their gold-rush costumes smoking, drinking coffee. The director consulting with her cameraman. Devon Cornish studying his phone. He’ll be lucky, the chances of a signal here are next to zilch even with a sat-phone. I’ve been surplus to requirements since I arrived. A couple of NMIT film school students on placement have kept the sparse Tuesday morning traffic away and pretty much all of those asked have been cool about it, dazzled by the glamour of the film set and the chance to spot stars. Butchers Flat is transformed into the old Doom Creek goldfield. The level campground was perfect for establishing a mini set of ramshackle gold-rush huts and the surrounding hills, vegetation and rushing river are a stunning backdrop. It’s an idealised version of course. Tidied-up, firm-jawed, white-teethed. By contrast, the black-and-white pictures in the history books show hard, bitter, disappointed faces and a trashed environment. We’re living in the age of anti-history. The lessons have been staring us in the face for decades, if not centuries, but we’re more averse than ever to heeding them. The weather has stayed perfect. Check my watch: ten thirty. Another six hours to go, and I’m bored shitless. Nothing has happened in town over the weekend. Bruce and Doug haven’t argued about mining claims. Brandon Cunningham hasn’t bullied anyone. Everybody has been driving carefully. But even by the standards of the last few days, today is low-octane stuff.
Except I woke up this morning with blood on my hands.
‘What’s that?’ asked Vanessa, noticing the crimson smears on the bedsheets. ‘Been fighting again?’ My recent bout of even shorter temper has been noted. It’s not me. It just seems that lately there’s so many more dickheads around.
‘Nothing serious,’ I lied. ‘Scuffle in the pub. Manager asked me to sort it. Fell and grazed my knuckles in the process.’
‘That’ll account for the tear in your shirt, then.’
I heard the washing machine click into spin and the floorboards began to shudder. ‘What time is it?’
‘Time to get up. Paulie and I are off now, we let you sleep ’cause you got in so late.’
‘Cheers.’
‘You were on a late start anyway, weren’t you? Up at the film set?’
‘Right.’ We kissed our goodbyes. ‘See you tonight, pet.’
‘Maybe you could empty the machine when it finishes? Hang the washing out?’
‘Sure.’
Vanessa and Paulie left and I hopped in the shower. Maybe the jet of water would clear my head and tell me what happened last night. But no. Everything is still a blank.
‘Should have brought a book.’
Thomas Hemi has appeared at my shoulder. His is the last house in the valley, just up the hill from here. He and his family live a mostly self-sufficient life: a bountiful vegie garden and orchard, free-ranging hens, sheep, the occasional feral pig and deer shot by him and his two boys, and sales of legitimately obtained firewood to help pay the utility and council bills. They’re kind of the opposite of the Von Crapps. Hemi’s not quite off the grid but near as dammit. There’s a valley rumour that he’s got a supply of dynamite to blow Deep Creek bridge when the balloon goes up. The idea is the zombies won’t make it across the abyss. That’s a worry, because my house is on his side of the bridge and I haven’t worked out which team I’m supporting. He’s wielding a copy of The Road by Cormac McCarthy. That’d be right.
‘Enjoying it?’
‘Bit bleak but the Apocalypse can be, I suppose. Surpris
ed you’re hanging around here, Nick. Nothing better to do?’
‘Not really. Hoping they’ll call me up as an extra.’
‘Too clean cut. No chance.’
He’s decked out in a collarless shirt artfully smeared with grime. ‘You got a gig then?’
‘Craggy-faced shocked miner number three. I’m on soon apparently.’ He points at one of the young actors being doused in red liquid. ‘My oldest boy, Jaxon. He’s about to be found dead and I’ve got to look suitably disturbed from a distance.’
‘You up to it?’
‘For two hundred bucks a day, I can give you Shakespeare, mate.’
A call goes out on the megaphone.
‘I think you’re on.’
Thomas hands me his book for safekeeping, picks up a shovel and heads for his position.
I catch Devon Cornish’s eye and head his way. ‘Looks like things are under control here, I’ll be heading off soon.’
He checks his watch. ‘Still a bit to go, yet. Can’t see us finishing here until the end of the afternoon when the light changes.’
I’m not your fucking employee. ‘All the same. No cars to bother you. You don’t need me here.’
Doof, doof, doof. I spoke too soon. A mule all-terrain vehicle is coming down the track: painted camo, a driver and three passengers matching the paintwork. I recognise one of them as Brandon Cunningham.
The director throws a tantrum at the interruption and tells a minion to sort it. Everybody stops what they are doing and looks over as the buggy draws up at a cordon tape manned by a sallow youth who will be no match for Cunningham. I wander over. The rap music is deafening and none of the people in the ATV look like they’re enjoying it either.
‘Want to turn that down? Or off would be better.’
‘Officer Chester,’ says Cunningham, lowering the volume. ‘Didn’t know you were in the movie business?’
‘As you can see they’re trying to do some work here …’
‘Work? That what you call it?’ The driver beside Cunningham chuckles; he’s twenty years younger with the same wiry menace.
In the back seat, two bigger men are squashed together in the narrow space. One is hairy, the other less so. In the cargo tray behind them there are four hunting rifles: Bushmaster semi-automatics.
‘You have permits for those?’
‘Sure.’
‘Show me.’
They hand them over.
‘Satisfied?’ says Cunningham after a moment.
Thomas Hemi has joined me. He introduces himself and offers his hand to all the ATV guys for shaking. None of them takes up the offer except Cunningham who attempts a squeeze.
‘Oooh,’ says Hemi, mock hurt. ‘That’s a strong grip, fella.’ He nods at the guns. ‘After a pig?’
The big hairy dude in the back laughs. ‘Something like that.’
‘Good luck,’ says Thomas. ‘I think I got the last one yesterday. Won’t be any around for a few days now, I reckon.’
‘Expert, huh?’ says the guy in the back.
‘Grew up around here. Our people have walked these parts for a long, long time. Didn’t catch your name, mate. I’m Thomas. You’d be …?’
Cunningham interrupts. ‘Thank you, Mr Hemi. We’ll try our luck anyway. The good Lord is sure to provide.’ He nudges the driver, and the engine kicks back into life. A three-point-turn and they bounce back up the steep hill with the music on full.
Devon Cornish puts in an appearance. ‘Thanks for dealing with that. I didn’t like the look of them.’
‘No problem.’
He speaks some words of te reo Māori to Thomas, nods and smiles at us both, and walks off.
‘What’d he say?’
‘Dunno, these city Pākehā think we all speak the language. Mine’s schoolboy at best.’ The megaphone starts up again. ‘Better get back to my spot.’ He thumbs back up the hill at the retreating mule and the doof music. ‘They the new mob at the Lodge?’
‘Yep.’
‘Yanks.’
‘Apparently.’
Thomas lifts his chin. ‘Thousands of them running over here since their country went to the dogs.’
‘Weird isn’t it? And they seem exactly the kind of guys who would have voted that way and welcomed it with open arms.’
‘Made their bed but not prepared to lie in it, eh? S’pose it’s smart to keep your options open.’
‘Doom Creek is a good name for a survivalist bolthole.’
A shake of the head. ‘They’ve even got that wrong. It’s nothing to do with doom at all. It’s the shape of the rocks up there. Domes. Or “dooms”, as the Scots surveyor called them. I tell you, mate.’ Friendly finger prod to my chest. ‘People and their funny accents, can get you into all sorts of trouble. Mark my words.’
The megaphone. ‘Places everybody!’
Thomas pats himself down. ‘How do I look?’
I study him. ‘Like a valley hick about to be startled by something terrible.’
‘I think you’re projecting, bro.’
By lunchtime, I’m out of there. If they can get a signal on their sat-phones they’ll call me should Cunningham and his friends return. I don’t think he will. As far as I can see, he pushes and backs off, pushes and backs off. As if announcing to everybody that he’s around and he’s trouble. An empty aimless disruptor, kind of like his president. Not particularly interested in winning people over. He’s got his core group around him and that’s all he wants or needs. That’s okay if you mind your own business. But he seems intent on pissing us off. Such attention-seeking doesn’t go down well in these parts.
‘Is it a wrap, already?’ Latifa has just come through the door after a session out on SH6. She checks the clock on the wall. ‘You creative types. No staying power.’
‘Had lunch yet?’
She hasn’t, so we adjourn to the bakery.
‘Hey, Latifa,’ says Janeen. ‘Hope you’re looking after this old fella. Not as fast on his feet as he used to be.’ She shadow-boxes, winks at me, then clacks the coffee into the machine and grabs a mug from the rack.
‘What’s with the china?’ I say. ‘Somebody prick your conscience?’
‘I read up on it. He was right, that Yank. Complete tosser, but right. Don’t need all those cups going straight into landfill. Not enough room.’
‘What about the water in the dishwasher?’ Latifa points out. ‘Isn’t that a waste?’
‘Recycle it onto the garden out back. And it’s a low-consumption model anyway.’ She hands me my mug.
‘Almost worth taking that punch for.’ We return to the table with my coffee and Latifa’s L&P. Janeen delivers my lamb pie and Latifa’s ham wrap and retreats behind her counter.
‘Any tickets on SH6?’ I ask Latifa.
A shake of the head. ‘All sweet.’
‘Daniel back from Christchurch yet?’
‘Nah, his mum’s poorly. He’s staying there for the week.’
‘Serious?’
‘Don’t think so. She’s probably putting it on to keep him there a bit longer. Can understand the temptation.’ Another bite. ‘So how was it up on the film set?’
‘Lot of standing around. Doesn’t seem so glamorous up close.’
‘Devon whatsisname let you off early?’
‘Nothing happening that needs me. Well, apart from Cunningham turning up.’
‘What’d he want?’
‘The usual. Bad boy attention.’
‘Did he get it?’
‘No, he left pretty quickly. Thomas Hemi made his presence felt.’
‘Thomas?’
‘He’s an extra in the film.’
Latifa takes a gulp of L&P. ‘Thomas is one fella they shouldn’t mess with.’
‘Tough?’
‘As. He keeps pretty much to himself. Don’t see him around the marae or at any community gatherings. He was never one for that kind of thing; not for a long while anyway. People talk about him as the great leader they’ll never have.
’
‘Each to his own, I guess.’
‘So what’d he say to scare Cunningham off?’
‘Nothing really. Just shook hands and introduced himself.’
She nods. ‘Mana.’
‘What?’
‘Think Jedi mind tricks and double it.’
‘I thought you said he was never one for that kind of thing?’
‘If you’ve got it, you’ve got it. Whether you want it or not.’
The afternoon is routine until I get a call from Vanessa who’s just got back home with Paulie. ‘I think the water pump is broken.’
Bugger. And I’m not the handiest of blokes. ‘You’ve checked the power switch? Turned it off and on again?’
‘Yep. And turned all the outhouse taps on and off in case there was an air bubble. Usual routine. The tank shouldn’t be out of water, we’ve had big rain every other week for yonks.’
‘Want me to call the plumber?’
‘Nah, I can do that. I’ll just try the pump power switch one more time.’
Two minutes later she phones back.
‘Somebody shot a hole in the bottom of our water tank.’
‘Shit.’ The valley is a stray bullet kinda place. Hunters and dickheads and sometimes an unsubtle combination of both. You get used to it. ‘I’ll pick some stuff up from the marine shop to plug it and get the fire brigade guy out to give us a top-up from his water truck.’ I check my watch. ‘See you in about twenty.’
‘Better bring some water bottles from the Four Square to see us through until the morning.’
‘Will do.’
Driving back up the valley road with my supplies of emergency water and resin for the leak, I’m thinking dark thoughts. Sure it could just be an accident; a stray hunter’s bullet. The Roar is still on, the optimum deer-hunting time, and the valley has been echoing even more than usual with the crack of rifle fire. But I’ve decided it’s Brandon Cunningham and his gang. Driving past the Lodge I imagine him sitting watching me go by through that little camera on his tree and having a good laugh.
Later. I promise.
Vanessa is flustered and Paulie is out of sorts. He doesn’t like it when things don’t go to plan. I know the feeling. He looks at the slab of twenty-four water bottles I’ve brought home. ‘I can’t shower with that.’
